


Promptober 2020 - Oct 1-3

by tiamatv



Series: Promptober 2020 [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel Promptober (Supernatural), Domestic Fluff, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Road Trips, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sounding, Team Free Will 2.0 (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:07:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26765524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: 1) Suptober:  The Road Again: T, Dean/Castiel, established relationship2) Kinktober: Sounding: VERY E, Dean/Castiel, established relationship, kink negotiation, and yes, sounding.3) Suptober: Demonic: G, mostly gen, Sam POV, TFW 2.0 fluff.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Promptober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954990
Comments: 56
Kudos: 172





	1. Suptober: On The Road Again

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies: I realized how overwhelming the tags could get in a single file if I actually ended up completing 31 stories, and a wise soul noted that I perhaps should do it as a collection rather than trying to do it all as a single story file! Also, this way might be easier for people to avoid things that they might not want to read...

Day 1: On the Road Again

Dean’s loved to drive ever since he got his driver’s license.

(Oh, who the fuck’s he even kidding. He was driving long before he ever got a driver’s _permit_. Hell, he could _boost_ a car before he could even get a driver’s permit.)

That’s one thing about Baby, though. Sure, she’s an automatic. ( _Yeah,_ Dean could drive a manual, but why bother?) But she isn’t an automatic like those little plastic putt-putts that Sam’s so enamored of. Those are glorified fucking _golf carts._ But his Impala’s a glorious lady. She’s gotta be treated right, but if she is, she’ll give her whole heart and soul to take them wherever they need to go. Day or night, outward or homeward.

Her long bench seats have been bleachers and bed and a million other things. Dean gets why bucket seats exist, but he doesn’t really. Baby, with her solid size and her seats and the way a high wind’s never going to blow her sideways, makes the road someplace to _live_ rather than someplace used to get somewhere. Even though they’re headed back from a successful teensy weensy little salt and burn, and they’ll be back at the bunker in less than six hours, Dean already feels like he’s home.

Though maybe there’s more than one reason from that.

In shotgun, Cas’s hand settles warm on top of his. Neither of them pretend it’s an accident. Bryan Adams purrs from the radio, crackly with static and the distance from the station.

“Eyes on the road,” Cas murmurs, when Dean turns to look at him—drink in the silhouette of him in the dark, the motion of the road and the trees and the floating dark through the Impala’s long windows past him. His angel is looking forward at the road with enough concentration for both of them, though. He even has his brow all furrowed up.

“Sure, sunshine,” Dean answers, with a chuckle.

So fuckin’ serious. Dean wants to lick him.

He keeps looking at the damned gorgeous curve of Cas’s cheek into that stubbled jawline for just a little longer. Let Cas think he’s just being a contrary asshole—he is, but that doesn’t mean that Cas ain’t something to look at with the flick, flick, flash of streetlights dropping kisses on him every few seconds. Just looking at the faintest hint of dark shadow there where his ear curves into the arc of his neck makes Dean’s thighs go tight. “Hey, uh… you know.”

“Mmh?” A truck cruises past them, and Cas’s eyes flash summer sky for just a second in the glow of the headlights, and he’s something to steal breath. Not grace—just Cas bein’ Cas.

“Wanna stop for the night?” Dean’s pretty sure there’s a Super 88 or something nearby, remembers it from when they last drove this way. A lifetime’s habits means that Dean’s mental maps are pretty fucking great, and he marks motels on them the way some people put pins on globes.

Cas doesn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

There’s no mold in the bathroom, but the bed squeaks in the motel room, and there’s a weird dip in the center of something that can only be called a queen bed by a couple of generous Barbie dolls, it’s a full-size at best. They can hear the TV going on either side of them, and a couple squabbling two doors down.

The next morning, Dean smirks as the loud asshole from 3C stops on his way out the door and sees Dean leaning a shoulder against the wall, waiting for Cas to finish undoing the warding that they put on the walls. The guy goes red, and then purple, and then… Dean’s pretty sure Sam and Cas would call that color ‘puce,’ which always makes Dean think of puke, and it really fits.

Dean’s not sure what’s turning him that color: maybe the fact that the guy was yelling at his wife using words that Dean’s pretty sure would get him a bullet through the brain until Cas growled once, climbed out of bed, and disappeared out the door wearing nothing but his suit pants with the buckle undone. There was definitely no yelling after that.

Or maybe it's because Dean was pretty sure that _everyone_ in this dump could hear what Dean and Cas got to afterwards, after Cas got back to the room electric-eyed, cords standing out in his neck, lips puffed and pouted. (They didn’t exactly make it back to the bed for the first round.)

Not so long ago, Dean might have even cared what the guy thought.

Today, Dean waggles his eyebrows. He doesn't have a word for the color the guy turns. 

Cas, coming out of the door and shrugging into his coat, gives Dean a sideways, curious look—not that Dean said anything. He doesn’t pay any attention at all to the asshole he put the fear of God into—ha ha.

Dean grins, shakes his head, and keeps whistling as he strides for Baby, jangling his keys.

Dean’s jeans chafe, gently, on the beard scrapes on his inner thighs—the feeling of it is warm and electric and just on the right side of achy, like a secret sunburn.

He’ll be feeling that the whole rest of the drive home.

~fin~


	2. Kinktober: Sounding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, this escalated quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day late and 3K longer than I meant it to be. Story of my life.
> 
> THIS is now officially the smuttiest thing I've ever written. It's so smutty I haven't been able to reread it, so I apologize for any and all errors.
> 
> If you do not know what sounding is... perhaps this is not the story for you. Or, well, who knows, it might be! ;)

Day 2: Sounding

Dean’ll freely admit he can kind of be a kinky fucker. Or, at least, he can admit it _now_. These days, Dean’s been trying hard to be honest with himself about the kind of things he likes and doesn’t like, and hell, sometimes he’s managed to surprise himself.

Cas put the whole thing in perspective a few weeks ago when he looked at Dean and said, “If it feels good, and it doesn’t harm anyone, why shouldn’t you have it?”

Dean was red-faced, facedown with come all over his ass and back, nerves sparking hot and unpleasant at how good it felt to have Cas come all over him. The first thing out of Dean’s mouth, a little to his embarrassment, was, “It’s _weird_ , Cas. It’s fucking weird, and—"

Cas frowned, and brought over a washcloth. “So?” he asked, with genuine surprise. “Why should you care? Your life is weird. _I’m_ weird.” His lips curved in the fucking cutest little hopeful smile Dean had ever seen. “You, um, seem to enjoy me anyway?”

And goddammit, Dean did, and _goddammit,_ Cas was trying to flirt with him, and _goddammit_.

When Cas is right, he’s right.

So. Honesty about what Dean likes in bed.

That he kind of likes the feel of panties—on him, cupping his cock, barely holding in his balls, not just soft and silky against his fingers? That wasn’t really a shocker.

That he likes it when Cas holds his hands over his head, pins him against a wall with that fucking _controlled_ strength of his, uses his hips and his leverage and the way he’s just a little bit shorter to press the fucking poetic curve of his hipbones against Dean’s groin? That Dean can come _just_ from that, nothing more? A little bit of a shocker.

That having his hands cuffed or tied down rather than having warm, strong fingers wrapped around or through his own puts his head into the kind of space where Dean doesn’t want to be? That he _doesn’t_ like that at all? He… didn’t see that one coming.

But that he _likes_ getting pushed down and fucked until he’s making little hiccupping noises and lying in a pool of his own come, Cas’s groans and whimpers and praise echoing loud and raspy in his ears ‘cause his angel hasn’t learned how to hold back?

Oh, hell _yes_.

But this? He hadn’t thought about this.

“You want to _what?_ ” Dean absolutely does not squeak.

“I thought it might be something that interests you,” Cas pronounces, watching Dean calmly, closely. There’s no delicacy to it, ‘cause Cas isn’t exactly a delicate fucking flower. The look isn’t even wary. It’s like he doesn’t have any clue that someone else might punch him in the face for even _asking_ about this kind of thing. “Does it not?”

“ _No_ , Cas!” Dean yelps. “No, I don’t want to— _no!_ ” Holy shit, where had Cas come up with this idea, and where exactly is he getting this stuff? Yeah, Dean’s been pushing him to say a bit more about the kind of things _he_ likes—and sometimes it’s frustrating that Cas is so go-with-the-flow when it comes to the sex stuff—but… what?

“Oh. Alright.” Cas just blinks at him, serene and unapologetic. Like he’s been talking about the weather, or whether they need to get more milk from the grocery store.

Then, like the asshole can read his mind—he _swears_ he can’t do that anymore, not with the sigils on Dean’s ribs—he asks, “Do we need more milk?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers, with a bite in his voice, lip twisting.

Cas makes a note of it on the grocery list like he can’t hear the crack of the whip in Dean’s tone.

Dean should just leave it at that. He does leave it at that.

And they go and get groceries as if Cas never, just out of the blue, asked if Dean wants to try sticking something into his penis.

*_*_*_*

For at least a few hours, Dean doesn’t say anything about what Cas mentioned.

He doesn’t know why he’s mad about it, exactly. Cas can tell that he is—he must be able to, it’s not like he can’t read Dean’s moods when he wants to—but he doesn’t comment, just stands in the tea aisle looking at the options for too long, like always, as if there’s really a fucking difference in the taste between Ginger Peach Black and Dark Peach Oolong or whatever. Sam doesn’t ask, either, but he looks at Dean over dinner with a kind of pitying carefulness that makes Dean want to drink, or punch something, or bite _everyone_.

Dean has a drink, whiskey neat, too fast. But it’s just the one.

He doesn’t punch something.

He doesn’t bite.

Cas comes back to their bedroom for the night anyway, as if Dean hasn’t been giving him the silent treatment all afternoon.

“Why’s it called that anyway?” Dean finally complains, his voice bursting out of him in a low, snarly rush. It’s too loud. He tones it down. “’Sounding.’” It sounds less threatening when he thinks about it that way, like it’s ludicrous. His lip curls. “Makes no goddamned sense, it’s got nothing to do with. You know. Sound.”

“It means ‘to find the right depth,’ I believe,” Cas answers, calmly, his trench coat draped, folded, over his forearm like the fancy napkin of some waiter in a movie. Then, his voice a little softer, crackly like static, “I’m sorry. I offended you. I won’t mention it again.”

He doesn’t make excuses. Cas doesn’t, a lot of the time.

That gives Dean pause. It makes the uncomfortable, angry squirming in the pit of his stomach take notice, try to roar up again. This time, he sits on that shit like goddamned Miss Muffet on her tuffet.

Cas meant well—he always does, even when crap goes wrong on him. (It does. A lot.) And he keeps trying—again, even when crap goes wrong on him. But he doesn’t do anything without reason, and goddammit, Dean has been trying to find out what _Cas_ likes, too—not just what _Dean_ likes.

So. Here they are, and Dean’s first reaction the first time Cas brings something really kinky up of his own damned volition is to bite out at him and give him the grade school silent treatment for a couple of hours? When Cas has never, never _once_ , judged Dean for anything he’s ever wanted or asked for or hasn’t known how to ask for in bed?

Real great, there, Winchester. Yeah, A+ on the partnering. Real communication win.

Dean clenches his fists on the edge of the bed and breathes into the feeling of being a failure and a fuckup. Breathes it in and out. Out, out, out. “Um. I don’t… I’m not upset.”

Cas looks at him.

He might not ever judge Dean for sex, but he’s perfectly damned capable of judging Dean’s lies without saying a single damned word.

Dean can’t keep meeting his gaze at that one, ‘cause Cas ain’t always right, but when he is, he’s _really_ right. “I just, I mean,” he blurts out. “Seriously, Cas, _why_?”

Cas doesn’t pretend to not understand, to Dean’s relief. He could be an asshole about this, if he wanted—Dean would probably deserve it—but Cas saves his assholeness for times of prime effectiveness.

“You seem to enjoy it quite a lot when I dip the tip of my tongue into your meatus, or rub it with a fingertip,” Cas tells him, with his head tipped gently to the side and a hint of a curious, hopeful smile curling his lips before it fades away, and he shrugs. “That’s why I’ve kept doing it. I thought you might like some stimulation that’s a little more… intense. Deeper.”

Cas looks so damned _pleased_ at that hint of remembrance that it makes Dean’s stomach flutter. Or, okay, maybe something a little higher up than his stomach, tapping at the inside of his rib cage? _You there, Winchester? Tap, tap_.

Dean swallows. His teeth unclench. “What, uh. What do _you_ get out of it, though?”

Cas doesn’t need to think about the answer, lower lip tucked outwards and a tiny frown touching between his eyebrows like even the question is a surprise. “Your pleasure.”

Dean pauses. “What?”

Cas tips his head. “What do you get out of it when you stroke me to orgasm without allowing me to touch you? Or discover that the insides of my elbows are sensitive? I imagine it’s much the same idea.”

(Dean really likes that, too. Loves when Cas says ‘please, please, Dean, I want you, I _want,_ ’ like he can’t help himself. The tremor in his hands is so damned beautiful as he clutches onto the headboard, onto the sheets, sweetly obedient in a way that Dean didn’t know the sassy, bossy asshole could be.)

Dean knows the answer to that one. Hell, he knows all the answers to that one.

He fucking _loves_ finding the things Cas likes—things Cas didn’t know about himself, things Cas didn’t know about desire or flesh or fun or _pleasure_.

Things that Cas’ll always associate with Dean, now.

Yeah, Dean really like that.

Dean breathes in. Breathes out. Thinks about what he wants, and about honesty, and about _so what if it’s weird if it feels good?_

‘Cause it _did,_ when Cas focused all of his attention one day on the slit and the tiny stripe of skin that led down the underside of Dean’s cock (“your frenular remnant, Dean; I’m glad it’s still sensitive, even though you’re circumcised”). Last time, right in the middle of one of Cas’s truly _epic_ , eternal BJs, he put both thumbs gently on the head of Dean’s cock, spread his slit wide open between them—the same way he did with Dean’s ass sometimes when he was about to rim or fuck him stupid, now that Dean thinks about it—and just _looked_ , like Cas had no idea he was trying to look down into somewhere people weren’t suppose to.

‘Cause Cas _did_ have no idea, and when he stuck the tip of his tongue in, a quick squirm of sensation, Dean yelled and came so hard it got all over Cas’s pretty face. Dean didn’t normally _do_ that unless he's asked first.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Dean swallows. “Uh… we could… I mean. We could try it, I guess. If you wanna. Why not, right?”

“Would you prefer metal or silicone? I have both options.” Cas says, immediately, not a single moment of fucking lead-in, and Dean’s glad he’s not holding his phone, ‘cause that screen would’ve cracked for _sure._ Uh, _what?_ “And I have smooth and rippled ones of the silicone. And curved and straight ones of the metal—”

“Opti—what the fuck, Cas, this ain’t ‘zactly like ordering from Pizza Hut!” Dean yelps.

Cas blinks. “But… why not?” He frowns. “We have several selections for lubricant, too. Sterile, of course. I realize I can keep you from getting any infections, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful.”

“I—” Dean doesn’t exactly have a good answer for that. Shit, he’d walked _himself_ into this particular analogy. “Wait. Why the fuck do you have _all_ that stuff?”

“This is something very intense. I wanted to make sure that I wouldn’t harm you. So I practiced on myself, first,” Cas answers, simply.

Okay.

Okay, just like that.

Dean stands up. Cas gives him a wary look when Dean’s hand starts to come up, but Dean’s just reaching up to check that his brain isn’t leaking from his own ears. Then he reaches out and grabs Cas by the front of his shirt.

He’ll never get tired of the way an Angel of the Lord just melts into a puddle of feathers when Dean kisses him.

“Go get ‘em, angel,” he murmurs, nipping on the little dip of Cas’s full upper lip, and Cas shivers, smiling. “Let’s play.”

So here they are.

The silicone ones are kind of silky, but the metal ones are so smooth. Dean’s not sure he _likes_ either option, he’s not really sure what about them he’s supposed to like or not like. So it makes no sense at all that Dean’s almost weirdly _disappointed_ when Cas shows him the one he’d recommend—it’s straight and pretty short, almost definitely shorter than Dean’s cock when it’s erect, and not very wide. Kind of tiny, actually. Maybe half the diameter of Dean’s pinkie finger—maybe not even that. Definitely nowhere _near_ as wide as the tip of Cas’s tongue.

“It doesn’t look like very much,” Cas acknowledges, but he hands the slender metal rod to Dean. It’s warm with Cas’s fingers, and heavier than it looks. The tip is rounded and tapered into a smooth, squared curve, a little wider than the shaft, and there’s a delicate little ball at the other end. “But I think you will like the effects of gravity more than the grip of the silicone ones.”

Cas's really thought about it. So… okay, Dean’s getting kind of into this. Huh. He looks down at himself. Not hard—he’s still kind of nervous, he guesses—but… almost, getting there, that familiar ache in the pit of his stomach.

Cas doesn’t ask him if he’s sure, but he kisses him when Dean lies down, tongue slow and easy as a summer thank-you. “Would you like me to talk you through it?”

Normally Dean really, really loves the gritty, raspy, weirdly resonant sound of Cas’s voice. He does. But here’s the thing about Cas: he only goes two ways, and never the twain shall meet—either he’s so hot with the dirty talk and the praise that Dean wonders if his wings are going to catch on fire, or he’s so fucking awkward that Dean’s cackling before he can even decide if it’s hot or not.

“Um, maybe not this time,” Dean admits. He wants to try, but he’s definitely not _there_ yet, and he’s pretty sure that laughing is gonna be the last straw in killing his boner. “I’ll, uh… I’ll ask if… y’know.”

Cas, warming up the lube, snorts.

Dean flicks out a foot and kicks him.

Okay, maybe a little laughing feels kind of good.

Dean’s not laughing anymore by the time he’s watching the very tip of the metal sound disappear into the hole at the tip of his cock, though. It’ll probably fit—the thing’s not big, he’s not really worried about that—but that feels… weird. More… slippery pressure, than anything. It doesn’t hurt, though. Cas told him it was good that he wasn’t hard—okay, _why?_ —but now Dean’s sort of worried he won’t get hard at all.

“Watch,” Cas murmurs, gently straightening Dean’s cock and pointing it towards the ceiling, his fingers balancing the lubed-up rod over it and not letting it push in any further. Okay, with it up in the air like that, the tip nuzzling hard and rigid into Dean’s slit, it… doesn’t look as small as Dean thought, anymore. He tenses, but Cas smiles down at him. “This is exciting. I particularly enjoy this part.”

Huh?

Cas doesn’t let go of Dean’s cock, but he lets go of the sound.

Suddenly—very suddenly—Dean understands exactly what Cas meant by ‘gravity.’

It _shouldn’t_ be bizarrely hot, watching something sink down into him—something sliding into his _cock_ —feeling it fill him with nothing more powering it than its own weight. It burns a little—it almost feels like he has to pee—but it doesn’t hurt. He can’t miss that it’s _there,_ it’s in him, but the slow glide of it is so gradual that Dean doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the little ball at the end nuzzles into the slit. The whole thing is inside him. Just like that.

Dean’s breath rushes out in a sharp, fucked-out gasp. “Holy…” he whispers, with all the voice he has left, staring at the lube-wet little nub that’s all that he can see, now, peeking up at him over the firm cup of Cas’s fingers around his shaft. He’s not sure it feels good, but _holy fuck_.

Then he imagines Cas doing this. Cas doing it to _himself_ —teasing his slit with all those toys to find out what he thinks Dean might like. He thinks of Cas watching in wonder—“ _I particularly enjoy this part_ ”—as his body’s filled up with the slow push of metal, the same way he wanted to watch in a mirror the first time Dean took him up the ass.

Okay, Dean gets it, now, kind of. He gets it.

When he looks up, Cas is watching him like he’s a miracle.

“M’good,” Dean confirms, in case Cas needs to hear it. His laugh is as much relief as anything. “Shit, I thought _I_ was the kinky one. You’re really into this.”

Cas doesn’t look like that idea bothers him _at all._ “I think so. May I…?”

Dean has absolutely no fucking idea what he’s agreeing to when he says “Yeah, okay.”

Cas leans down and licks the head of Dean’s cock. Sound and all.

He’s careful—he’s still got a hand gently cradling Dean’s half-chub, and he doesn’t let it move, doesn’t let _anything_ move. It feels good, though, it feels really good, that familiar swipe along the ridge of Dean’s cock, the tickle along his frenulum, the curve and tension when Cas smiles—

When Dean starts getting harder, he feels it. Like, really, really, _really_ feels it—not just the tightening of his groin, or the slow fill of blood, but—inside. He’s never felt himself getting hard _inside_ , warm metal slipping minutely against the inside of his channel, and how is it possible it feels _bigger_ , now?

“W-what?” he manages to squeak out. He feels so fucking _full_. His cock bobs, and that almost does him in.

Cas lifts his head and looks pleased. “The spongiosum around the urethra engorges with arousal,” he answers, nodding. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

Okay. Full on awkward too-many-details mode. Dean should not be finding that hot. “Spon— _what?_ ”

“This, here.” Only one part of Cas is moving—his thumb—and all it’s doing it stroking gently up and down that thick ridge on the underside of Dean’s cock that he’s honestly never thought all that much about—just thought it was a vein or something, except it very clearly fucking _isn’t_. He’s very sure no damned blood vessel feels like that when it’s rubbed.

He squirms. “ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps. “Fuck. Cas, what’re you—”

Cas runs his thumb in a gentle flick _across_ , not up and down, and it’s like he twanged something inside Dean’s brain when the metal _shifts_. Cas’s lips part, and he licks the lower one—for the first time, his eyes leave Dean’s face. His angel’s face is bright with fascination and wonder and excitement as he does it again—a little less carefully, this time, watching his own hand on Dean’s cock.

Oh God, Dean can feel it, and he _knows_. Cas’s finger is separated from the rod inside him by just that thin tiny layer of Dean’s own flesh, and Cas can feel it _inside_ him. He wonders if maybe Cas didn’t think he’d find it as exciting as he is, ‘cause he can see the way Cas’s shoulders are heaving when he bends over for a closer look.

Cas kisses the bottom of Dean’s cock, his full lips a soft, affectionate brush. He kisses the sound, right through Dean.

Oh fuck. Oh shit, Dean’s definitely all the way hard, now.

“You like it,” Cas confirms, happily, with a sunshine smile right up the line of Dean’s body, peeking blue-eyed at him over Dean’s flushed, filled-up erection. “Good.”

Then he wraps his lips—not his teeth, there’s no click, no vibration—gently over the little metal ball poking out of Dean’s slit, and sucks.

The sound _moves_.

It doesn’t move much—or at least Dean doesn’t think it does—but _holy shit_ his whole body tries to move with it. A thick blurt of precome spreads out from just underneath the lift of the metal ball, and Cas’s tongue slips underneath it. He slurps, noisy, unembarrassed. The rod moves again, and Cas nudges it back into place with a nuzzle of his lips. Then he sucks again.

Dean doesn’t know what to do.

He has no idea.

It's like the first time Cas fucked him, and it’s nothing like it at all—wrong and right, friction and motion in places Dean didn’t expect to like them.

It’s too goddamned much, and he wants it to stop.

Cas hums with the little ball between his lips, and the vibration curls Dean’s toes and shakes him all the way from his neck to his knees, and he never wants it to stop.

He knows he’s choking, whimpering even. He wants to move, but he doesn’t know how.

That’s okay. Cas’s got him, Cas is taking care of him, using his hand so jack Dean off so gently, his tongue licking and flicking the little ball of the rod up and down. Dean’s cock feels three times as big as it normally does, crammed full and swollen. Cas is fucking him in a way that Dean never imagined, and Dean’s body knows what it wants. It knows what to do. It’s going to have it.

“You’re close. I’m going to pull it out, Dean.”

“ _No_ ,” Dean hears himself protest. He’d deny that high whine if he could—if his body wasn’t so hot and tight, empty and full, if even the tiniest little motion didn’t make him feel like he was going to explode right out of his skin. “No, no, dammit Cas, don’t stop—”

Cas pulls the rod out, slow and careful, and Dean doesn’t know if the feeling is like he’s peeing, or coming in slow motion, or _what_ it is, his body weirdly light and empty and suspended in nothing as he moans. The warm metal comes free with a soft kiss of lube, a dribble of precome. But then Cas’s hand comes back down around him and Cas’s _other_ hand slides under and under, rubbing Dean’s soft pucker, and a lubed-up finger thrusts _in_ —

It's so completely different, having his ass filled again. Familiar, by now, and one finger in his butt should be nothing compared to what Dean’s just had in him, it _is_ nothing—but the easy press of Cas’s finger against something that Dean didn’t know was throbbing and aching and feeling so damned full, a spike of a completely different pleasure, Cas’s hand around his empty cock—

Dean’s back leaves the bed. He comes so hard he sees stars, and the rush of come through something that was so recently _full_ is overwhelming. But he can’t make it stop—doesn’t want it to, and he feels every jet of it spurting out like it’s his first, like he’s thirteen again and shaking and sobbing.

But he didn’t have an angel fingering his ass at thirteen, and it’s all a little too much. It drags him screaming out to sea, rolling and drowning him in an undertow he doesn’t know how to get out of. But Cas’s tongue is in his mouth like a lifeline, and Dean’s angel is moaning, too—a low, heavy thrum of vibration that’s a wordless song of praise and wonder.

When Dean comes back to Earth from about three revolutions of the moon, Cas is smiling at him and straddling his chest. He’s so close that Dean can smell him, musky and sweet at the same time, like honey on the stove. His eyes are hot and content, a blue ring around infinite pupils, and he’s got a hand on himself, just thumbing lazily around the head. Come is all over his fingers, paler than the clear lube, sloppy and shiny on his cock, and Dean knows it’s not Cas’s—he gets pretty wet, but not _that_ wet. He shivers.

 _Likes playing around with my come. Huh._ He’ll have to remember that.

Yep. Dean’s not the only kinky fucker here, it looks like.

“Your turn?” Dean asks, his voice hoarse, happy. He opens his mouth in invitation, and Cas’s eyes go bright.

“Oh, yes please,” Cas answers, and lowers his cock to Dean’s lips.

~fin~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, so I wanted to try writing something that is not a kink that I have, and it was kind of a fun challenge! Hope you guys, uh, enjoyed it?
> 
> I generally do not feel the need to add this at the end of smutty chapters, but in this case: this is fun and fantasy, sounding is very intense play that can be dangerous, and if it is something you are interested in, please do your research!


	3. Suptober: Demonic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand now we're back to fluff. Unbetaed, vaguely S14. I know it's not congruent at all with the show timeline, since there IS a Halloween episode of the show, but bear with me.

“ _No_.”

Sam’s not exactly sure _what’s_ put that tone in Cas’s voice this time, but he’s pretty sure about the _who_ , because Castiel, Angel of the Lord, former Seraph of a heavenly garrison, only ever gets that exasperated at one being in the entire universe.

Spoiler alert: it’s _not_ Cas’s teenage nephilim.

(Not that Jack is Cas’s biological kid, of course he’s not. Technically. Maybe? Sam has a bunch of theories about all that, though, considering that angels don’t have _bodies_ in their native form, right? They’re wavelengths of intent. Since Jack’s _intent_ has always been that Castiel is his father, well, doesn’t that essentially mean that as far as angel biology goes, Cas _is?_ )

Thinking about that kind of thing, though, almost gives Sam more of a headache than the argument that seems to be going on in the Vault.

“Okay, _what’s_ that face?” Dean asks. There’s enough of a whine vibrating at the back of Dean’s deep voice that Sam knows that no-one’s at risk for death or dismemberment. Except maybe Dean. “Seriously, buddy, what’s wrong with it? Tell me.”

Sam has learned not to bet, not even with himself, about who’s pissing Cas off at any given moment. He’ll win every time.

“No. You don’t have enough hours in your human lifetime,” Cas growls. “Absolutely _not_ , Dean.”

“Look, Cas, last year was different, but we’ve got a _kid_ now,” Dean wheedles.

“Yes, exactly. Which is precisely why I’m not going to allow you to expose him to such—such—I can’t _believe_ you even—"

Sam feels his eyebrows jolt upwards into his hair, and yeah, he’s stepping in before anyone gets splattered all over the walls.

Then he sighs, because—as usual—Dean and Cas are arguing toe to toe, close enough that at least the one between the two of them who can taste molecules _has_ to be able to taste Dean’s breath, and Cas’s trench coat is almost against Dean’s denim. Sometimes he thinks about making the comment about ‘saving space for God,’ but that really means something _very_ different for them.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Dean is being _extremely_ inappropriate,” Cas says.

Well, okay, what else is new?

In the same breath, Dean announces, “Halloween.”

Oh. Oh, _that_.

“I’m with Cas,” Sam tells them both. He doesn’t even need to hear the rest of Dean’s argument.

Cas spreads his hands in triumph and steps back.

Dean’s eyes narrow, and he stabs a finger in Sam’s direction. “The Halloween hater killjoy nerd doesn’t get a say. Halloween’s for _kids_.”

“Jack is an adult,” Cas complains, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“What the fuck are you on, man? Jack is _two_!” Dean shoots back. “Look, yeah, he’s not human, but he’s still a _kid_. He never got to go trick-or-treating, but what’s wrong with all of us putting on a costume and just doing a little bitty something? Maggie and the crew are gonna get back tonight, they already said they’re bringing candy—"

“I am _not_ allowing you to embarrass him by making a mockery of his origins—” Cas thunders.

Their voices are overlapping, but enough grace is starting to hum around the edges of Cas’s already dark voice that Sam _does_ step forward with his arms held out.

“Okay, Dean, _what’s_ he talking—”

Dean shows him.

Sam’s mouth falls open. Wow. Wow, holy _shit._ “Dean. Dean, you _can’t_ be serious.”

Dean’s _maybe_ starting to look a little sheepish. “They were at the dollar store, okay? And look, I got ‘em for _all_ of us. Not just Jack. Isn’t that a whole… whatsit?” He gestures, expansively, at the collection of sparkly, cheap sequined headbands scattered over the table, the two bright red ones that he’s holding in one hand. “So we put ‘em on, we play a couple games, we have fun, and we get sick on candy. Reclaiming, right? That’s a thing?”

It _is_ a thing, that’s true, but since Sam did not expect Dean to either realize that or want to _approach_ that topic with a ten foot pole, he gapes.

“Um?” Jack trots up from the hallway and looks between the three of them—probably attracted by the shouting, the same way Sam was. “What’s… going on?”

The stare that Cas shoots at Dean should, if there were any justice in the world, light Dean’s hair on fire—and not in the sexy way.

Dean pretends—like he generally does—that he’s not in danger of angel immolation. “We’re talking about your first Halloween, kiddo.” His voice is a little gentler, the way it gets with Jack sometimes.

 _We’ve got a kid, now_ , Dean said. He’s right. It’s not that Sam forgets—he never forgets—but he _does_ forget that being a guardian to a kid means that they have to give him things that are fun, too. Things that are silly, things that are childish, things that are ridiculous.

He and Dean and Cas never got the chance to be kids. And yeah, Dean’s little joke is in bad taste even for _him_ , but…

“Why?” Jack asks, looking between them, and then at the headband in Dean’s hand. “What’s Halloween?”

Cas sighs. “It’s a bastardization of a Celtic pagan holiday. Humans dress up in costume and get intoxicated and consume sweets. Dean likes it because it’s an excuse to eat too much candy.”

Jack brightens. “I _like_ candy.”

Dean grins so broadly his eyes almost disappear. “Ever had a Baby Ruth? Maggie’s already grabbed a whole bag of ‘em for you. They’re even better than those 3 Musketeers you like, they’ve got caramel and peanuts, too. And the nougat’s flavored with chocolate.”

Jack’s eyes go wide and his lips part. “For _me_?”

Just like that—just from the expression on Jack’s face—Sam knows which of them is going to get their way.

“Look, c’mon, Cas,” Dean turns, and there’s something a little pleading in his voice, and he holds out his prize to Cas. “Stop being such a spoilsport. It’ll be fun! The rest of ‘em are all different colors” he’s right, they are, Dean picked up a whole rainbow—white, black, green, blue, even yellow and orange—"but look. I even got you two matching ones!”

Because Jack is Cas’s kid. Jack is _their_ kid.

Not Lucifer’s.

Sam already knows how this is going to end even before Cas growls something in Enochian, rolls his eyes to the ceiling so hard he’s probably looking right at Alpha Centauri, and reaches out for the little red headbands that Dean’s offering so hopefully. Their angel—well, Dean’s angel—turns to look at their son, and sighs, looking down at the costume item in distaste. “The final decision’s up to you. Jack?”

Jack tips his head to the side in a familiar way that Sam is almost sure he learned in the womb—he’s never said it aloud for fear of exploding Dean’s synapses—and smiles. “Are you going to wear it?”

Not even Cas can look pinched in the face of now the combined power of Jack’s _and_ Dean’s hopefulness. “If you do,” he sighs, but even he’s got a smile beginning to linger around his eyes. “If you do, we all will.”

Sam doesn’t bother to say that he never agreed to that.

“Well, I like them. They’re cute!” Jack announces. “I’ll do it.”

Sam’s pretty sure Jack has no idea what he’s happy _about_ , but for all the shit he’s gone through in his very short life, Jack’s happy like candy is sweet: things can change that, but it’s still his underlying nature. Even Cas’s underlying grumpy gentleness softens as Jack blinks at him, steps close, and tilts his chin proudly up to be costumed.

Cas puts the sparkly little red devil horns on Jack first before he puts on his own.

~fin~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original two stories that I tried to write for this prompt were smutty and just plain did not want to be written. So... have some TFW dads instead!

**Author's Note:**

> Present tense? Why did I do present tense? I am not used to present tense... and God, now I've committed myself to a whole blasted month of present tense...


End file.
